


Gutterflower

by honeyfoozle



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, Growing Up Together, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mutual Pining, Secret Relationship, as in sokka is the docile one and zuko is Daddy Bad Boy, not your typical zukka dynamic, only for one scene and ONLY in chapter 2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:34:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28229976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyfoozle/pseuds/honeyfoozle
Summary: “Okay, then. Why doyouthink I came out here?” Sokka looks down, feels his cheeks go crimson.Sokka can’t shake the feeling that he’s walked into something pre-mediated. It’s the way Zuko straightens at his question, like a student who’s been raising their hand throughout the entire lesson and isfinallycalled on. Sokka feels like whatever Zuko is about to say isn’t organic at all—that it’s something he’s been wanting to say all night.“’Cause you can’t resist me. Just like I can’t resist you.”OR:Zuko is rich in all the things that don’t matter, Sokka in all the things that do. And the only thing they’ve ever had in common is just how badly they want each other.
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 51





	Gutterflower

**Author's Note:**

> went back and forth on a lot of names for this fic. finally decided on gutterflower--named after the 2002 album by the goo goo dolls. feels /right/. my favorite track is sympathy. 
> 
> enjoy, mamas :~)

If ignorance is bliss, then hindsight must be misery. At 10 years old, Sokka is as blissful as he’ll ever be.

Looking back, their paths never would have crossed if Sokka’s gram gram didn’t buy that ranch on Waterside Road. Sokka would have no business there, where the lawns are pristine and the road markings are always fresh. Not that his gram gram does, either; the whole purchase screams a ‘later-life crisis’ sort of thing. But Kanna always said she wanted to live closer to the water, so Sokka are Katara are content to spend their summers on what they coin “the pretty street”. The enjoyment is pure, untarnished by the reality that they don’t fit in at all. They don’t dress like their neighbors, opting for jeans and a tee instead of polos and slacks. They don’t act like them, either, with their voices a little louder and manners a little less refined.

But Sokka doesn’t think about those things. Sokka likes the big sidewalks, big enough so his dad doesn’t worry about his safety during bike rides. And he likes that the ranch is just a ten-minute ride from the beach; the clean one, where he can actually swim.

There are other nice things about Waterside Road. Like the nice boy on the other end of the street, where the houses increase in size and value. Sokka sees him when he rides his bike, perched under a big willow tree. He always has his knees tucked under his chin, staring thoughtfully into a little pond. Sokka wonders what he’s looking at, so one day he decides to ask, calling out to him with a wave of his hand.

The boy jolts, dropping the twig he was fidgeting with with a wet _plop_. He doesn’t look up when he mutters “nothing, yet.”

“Yet?”

“I’m waiting for some ducks, or something.” His voice trails off, like he’s admitting something shameful.

Sokka shrugs, lifts the kickstand with his foot and pedals off. But an hour later he makes a detour on the way home to see if any ducks ended up entertaining the boy. There’s no one outside when Sokka rides by, though, and he takes a moment to marvel at the house, which is huge and blue with crisp white trimming. It doesn’t look anything like Sokka’s house—his _real_ house, on the other side of town with all the shuttered businesses and poorly kept roads. Sokka would never be able to go for a bike ride alone in his real neighborhood. This consideration taps at his shell of blissful ignorance; Sokka's life is _different_ than this boy's. 

He’s pondering whether or not the boy has his own room when a man emerges from the garage and shoots Sokka a meaningful look as if to say _scram, kid._ So he does, pedaling off to his grandma’s before he can contemplate how much food they probably have in their kitchen. The man is too scary, and Sokka is glad his dad doesn’t look like that.

He sees the boy again the next day, squatting next to the pond, plucking handfuls of grass from the ground. Every so often he sprinkles some into the water and stirs the concoction with a long tree branch.

“You’re not supposed to pull grass, you know,” Sokka finds himself saying.

“You’re not my dad,” the boy replies, mid-pull. But then his expression sours, and he releases the grass to wipe his hand on his pants instead.

“Yeah. I’m just saying,” Sokka says, feeling a little guilty. And then, “what’s your name?”

“Zuko.”

“I’m Sokka,” he says, unprompted, after a beat of silence passes and he’s certain Zuko has no intention of returning the inquiry. “Do you have a bike?”

Zuko fixes his gaze on a single blade of glass, eyebrows knit together as if deciphering a foreign language.

“No,” he says, voice measured. It’s too bad, Sokka thinks, and he’s about to pedal away before Zuko stands up. “I…have a scooter, though.”

Zuko doesn’t just have any scooter, Sokka realizes a few minutes later, after Zuko disappears into his garage and returns with his ride. He has _the_ scooter—the nicest one on the market. An electric one, red with orange and yellow flames painted onto the deck. It’s flashier than anything Sokka’s ever owned, and not something he’d imagine Zuko picking out for himself (with what little he knows about him, at least. Sokka's the type to make quick reads). Then Sokka thinks about his own bike, a corroded hand-me-down from his dad. He peels away some of the chipped paint as an afterthought, crumbling it in between his fingers as if to fool Zuko that he has a sleek new ride, too. But he doesn't; there's another difference between them.

“Why would you keep it hidden away like that?” Sokka asks, because he’d show that scooter off to everyone at school if _he_ had it. And he’d definitely rub it in Katara’s face, because she’s always wanted an electric scooter. After that, though, he’d let her take it for one ride around the block.

Zuko shrugs. “I never use it.”

“You’re weird,” Sokka says, the honest to God first thing that comes to his mind. But Zuko doesn’t register the humor in his tone and flinches a bit, making Sokka backtrack and think of a way to undo the hurt he’s caused. “How about you use it now, then?”

Zuko blinks at him before giving a slow, hesitant nod.

They go on a long ride together, to the beach and back. Zuko trails a few strides behind Sokka the whole time, even though the sidewalk is plenty wide. Sokka tries to slow down, to meet him at his pace and maybe talk a little, but Zuko is just out of reach, in his own world as he swivels in an S-shaped pattern and glides from the momentum of a few good kicks against the pavement. It’s strange; it makes Sokka wonder why he agreed to come on the ride at all.

Perhaps most peculiar is when Zuko asks if Sokka wants to go for another ride next week, with shy eyes glued to the pavement. Sokka says yes, and he’s surprised at how much the offer flatters him. Zuko doesn’t have the aura of someone who’d hang out with just _anyone_ , with his quiet voice and fidgety hands. Sokka decides that he wants to be his friend, right then and there.

The weekly rides become daily ones. Great effort on Sokka’s part brings out a new side of Zuko; one who unapologetically shrieks with laughter when a seagull flies too close to his head, one who guffaws in Sokka’s face when he beats him in a rock-skimming contest. As the humid summer weeks pass, Sokka feels like he’s milled a beautiful gem. Every protective layer Sokka tugs Zuko out of feels like a victory, and he sees Zuko as much of a friend as he does an exhilarating, impossible puzzle.

The fit together in an odd way. In a way that’s certain but doesn’t entirely make sense; like french-fries and a milkshake. Impossibly opposite people, drawn to each other by the intrigue of such stark disparities. Zuko has an aggressive edge to him that Sokka doesn’t always like; sometimes they’ll be hanging out and he’ll tousle him to the ground for no reason at all, dangling Sokka’s hair tie over his head and cackling as he scrambles to retrieve it. “Playing together is no fun if you’re just going to torture me,” Sokka usually says, but he’s never actually _mad_ about it. Rather, he wonders if Zuko even knows how to play with someone at all. Zuko always complains about his sister, Azula, doing all the things he frequently (perhaps unknowingly) does to Sokka, so maybe that aggression is all he knows.

Sokka’s edges aren’t as sharp, aren’t as intense, but some of them still seem to rub Zuko the wrong way, too. Zuko doesn’t like when Sokka talks bad about his dad’s house--his _real_ house--in the dangerous side of town. Because as the years go by and the area gets rougher, Sokka's sporadic moments of observation--"you mean you have your own _bathroom,_ Zuko?!"--develops into such deeply-etched embarrassment that he can hardly ride his rusty bike to Zuko's driveway without feeling like a peasant. Zuko has no tolerance for any of Sokka's self-deprecating trash talk, which Sokka thinks it just _rich,_ considering he lives in the prettiest lot on the road.

“I’ll switch with you, bud,” Zuko says, chewing on a long piece of wheat grass, as they sit under the big willow tree in his front yard. “I could handle your neck of the woods just fine.”

“Sure, but why _would_ you?” Sokka says, gesturing wildly to his immaculate house, yards away from where they sit. Zuko, with his newfound confidence from Sokka’s friendship, has seemingly forgotten how quiet and docile he is around people who _aren’t_ Sokka. Someone like him wouldn’t last a minute at Sokka’s school, where he’s constantly made fun of for the way he dresses, and the way he looks, and the food he eats. Sokka shakes his head in disbelief. “Let’s switch, then, since you’re dumb enough to offer.”

Zuko's front door swings open then, and the scary man Sokka recalls from years earlier--he must be Zuko's dad, right?--pokes his head out. He looks angry, eyes glowering at Zuko as though Sokka doesn't even exist. His lips are turned down as he speaks, and he has the deepest voice Sokka's ever heard.

"Are you kidding me with that room? Get in here _right now,_ Zuko."

"Oh, sorry, dad!" Zuko pales, relaxing a bit only when his dad retreats into the house after giving him one last menacing look. 

"You have two minutes with your friend."

Zuko sighs when they're alone. “Dumb enough, huh?” He stands up to dust himself off. Then he looks at Sokka, flicks his wrist at him like he's swatting a fly. “Nah. You’re the dumb one.”

Zuko never lets Sokka come into his house, which Sokka just assumes is an act of consideration. One look at the interior would probably leave him drooling, fueling his resentment for his raggedy clothes and raggedy house and raggedy life. It comes to a head when Zuko offhandedly gifts Sokka hand-me-down clothes under the falsehood that he never wears them anyways. Sokka avoided him for days after that, mortified at the thought that Zuko deemed his wardrobe pathetic enough to require a total upheaval. Katara had scolded him when he confided in her about it, though, yelling that Sokka is just projecting his own insecurities. Katara is right, but Sokka’s always possessed a gritty sort of stubbornness that, apparently, comes right from his mother. As if he would have any way of knowing that.

Thankfully, Zuko doesn’t ask any questions when Sokka bikes to his driveway a week later, dressed in dirty shorts and a worn old crewneck. He just looks up from his usual perch by the pond, cracks a knowing grin, and grabs his scooter that’s already leaning against the willow tree. And when they ride around the block, Zuko stays in perfect stride with Sokka, boasting about the baby ducks he’s been feeding all week. Sokka smiles as the warm breeze tousles his hair, elated that in a life riddled with so much shame, at least _this_ can be easy.

Gray clouds start to roll in on their way home, soon followed by noncommittal rumblings of thunder. They’re halfway back to Sokka’s house when the sky completely blackens and a percussion of rain begins to the pelt the ground, mixing with the earth to create puddles of mud that litter the dips in the sidewalk.

“Hey,” Zuko calls from behind Sokka, sounding timid. Sokka turns around to see him frowning, soaking wet and covered in mud from his waist down. “Uh. I can’t go home like this. My dad will get angry.”

Sokka regards his own form, which isn’t fairing much better. "Uh..." He ducks at a sudden crack of thunder, followed by a bolt of lightning electrifying the distant sky. The chaos hastens his words. “Just come back to my house, then!”

Zuko hesitates before another shot of thunder rips through the sky, urgent enough to make up his mind for him. They make quick work back to Sokka’s gram gram’s, a white ranch with black shutters and a tiny front porch. Sokka instructs Zuko to take his shoes off and leave his scooter on the lawn, where the rain can clean it off.

“Will—will your parents care I’m here?” Zuko asks, and Sokka can’t help but notice he’s regressing into that shy boy from two years ago, when Sokka first met him and made it his full-time job to yank him out of his trepidations.

“You mean my dad? Of course not,” Sokka says, surprised he felt the need to ask. He chucks his dirty shoes next to the small welcome mat and they topple all over Zuko’s neatly positioned ones. “Come on in!”

Sokka barges through the door, announcing to everyone that this is his friend Zuko, and they’ll both be needing the showers as soon as possible. _Everyone_ being his gram gram, dad and Katara, all of whom take a moment to blink at Zuko before smiling and introducing themselves. The house smells like hamburgers and hot dogs, with paper plates and solo cups littering the small kitchen island. Sokka’s dad is slicing a watermelon, and Katara sneaks a cube every time he looks away.

“We’re happy to have you, Zuko,” Kanna says, reaching down to pinch his cheek. His tiny flinch at her raised hand doesn’t go unnoticed by Sokka, but he's quick to straighten and flash a polite smile. “Dinner’s almost ready, and I’ve just made some lemonade.”

“Oh—uh, that’s okay,” Zuko says, scratching at the back of his neck. “You don’t have to feed me anything.”

“What?” Katara speaks up, dropping her watermelon. “Gram gram makes the best lemonade, though. You have to have some!”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, smelly,” Sokka says, but he just laughs when Katara elbows him in the rib (“no, _you’re_ smelly!”). Then Sokka turns to Zuko, looking a little bashful. “She’s right, though. You do have to try some.”

The storm rages on outside, so profound that some of the kitchen lights start to flicker. They do end up losing power, standing in darkness for a humorously silent moment before the electronics revive with a resounding thump. This prompts Sokka and Zuko to take quick showers, scrubbing the mud off before it happens again. Sokka gives Zuko some spare pajamas, though not without sarcastically apologizing that they’re not made of the finest silk. Zuko mumbles a nervous thanks under his breath, swiping the clothes and heading to the bathroom without so much as a chuckle. His silent mien prompts Sokka to wonder what’s gotten into him. Were they alone, he’s certain Zuko would be ready with a sarcastic comeback, something along the lines of ‘yeah, you should be sorry’. Even a 'they're fine, Sokka, shut up.'

But it’s Zuko, he reminds himself. And Zuko, out of his element, is slow to open up, and even slower to let someone see him smile.

Eventually the two pad downstairs, clean and dry. Hakoda ushers them into the living room, where Katara is watching a Disney movie on their CRT TV. They plop down onto the couch, thighs just barely brushing together, and Sokka takes the initiative to drape a soft blanket over their laps. He’s not too interested in the movie—who _hasn’t_ seen Tarzan plenty of times?—but he’s suddenly not so certain Zuko has, because his eyes stay glued to the TV, dancing with a sort of intrigue that would go unrecognized by anyone else.

They’re called for dinner just as Tarzan’s gorilla dad dies—Sokka can’t be bothered to remember his name—and he catches Zuko glancing over his shoulder at the TV as they head to the dining table. 

Sokka’s family chatters up a storm, passing the plates around and bombarding Zuko with questions. Sokka interjects as much as he can to take some of the heat off, but Zuko actually fares okay on his own, stuttering through answers with increased ease as he sinks into their family dynamics. Sokka’s chest swells with pride at the sight of it. 

“I see where you get your chattiness from,” Zuko murmurs, once his umpteenth round of questioning is over and Sokka’s family has taken to talking about their next camping trip. Sokka just laughs into his burger, elated at sense of normalcy the comment restores.

The normalcy continues until Hakoda starts asking Zuko about his family. Zuko stiffens next to Sokka, his responses suddenly clipped and reserved. It’s this obvious backslide into timidness, the disorientation written all over Zuko’s face that tugs at Sokka’s heartstrings, makes him wonder what on earth he’s so afraid of. And most importantly, how Sokka can make it better.

Under the nautical tablecloth, Sokka grasps Zuko’s hand in his own, squeezing it and not letting go. Zuko squeezes it right back, equally as content to eat his dinner with just one hand. And if Sokka’s family notices anything, they don’t acknowledge it.

* * *

The summer before starting high school is a tumultuous one, though it doesn’t start off that way. Sokka is bright-eyed in June, having just unpacked everything at his gram gram’s, and he whizzes down the street, eager to find Zuko and tell him he’s here, again, for another summer of beach days and bike rides. 

Only, Zuko isn’t in his yard when Sokka pedals by. Worse yet, the willow tree is cut down and the pond has been filled, converted into a big, extravagant garden instead. Sokka knows it isn’t a huge deal—it’s not even his house, for crying out loud—but the loss of such familiar scenery hits him harder than he’d like to admit.

He pedals in circles for a few minutes, contemplating if he should knock on the door and ask if Zuko’s around. His innate trepidation of Zuko’s house, and what little he knows about it, tells him he better not, so he pedals off, making a mental note to loop around before he returns home in case he can catch Zuko before the sun goes down.

Sokka’s glad he didn’t go and knock, because he ends up finding Zuko on the beach a half hour later. He’s sprawled out, leaning back on his palms and staring out into the horizon with a lopsided grin. Sokka creeps up next to him, frowning when Zuko regards him with dazed, bloodshot eyes.

“Hey, were you crying?” Sokka asks.

“Hello to you, too.” Zuko laughs a little too loud, like Sokka just nailed a perfect punchline. Sokka cocks his head at the reaction, which only makes Zuko laugh harder. “God, you’re sweet. Please never change, Sokka.”

A strong, unmistakable scent wafts his way. Sokka scrunches his nose, then, and his blood runs cold. “Oh. You’re…smoking.”

Zuko doesn’t answer, just leans his head on Sokka’s shoulder and continues to giggle. Sokka straightens but doesn’t pull away, finds he doesn’t _want_ to pull away. Zuko’s hair tickles his neck, firing shivers down his spine, and Sokka instinctively combs through his locks to smooth them. Zuko crumbles under the touch, leaning down until his head is in Sokka’s lap. He stares up at Sokka with such unrecognizable eyes that he considers shoving him away and asking where the real Zuko went. But it’s still him, it’s still his Zuko, who reaches up and brushes Sokka’s stray hairs away.

“Damn, I’ve missed you.”

Sokka’s mouth goes dry. “I’ve…yeah. Me too.”

He feels nervous around this new version of his friend, who has unfocused eyes and an unnervingly content smile. Zuko hasn’t been content as long as Sokka’s known him, but maybe that’s the point of all this, anyways. Lots of kids at his school smoke weed, though Sokka’s never tried it. The kids who smoke do a lot of other things Sokka would get in trouble for, like cut class and drink, so he doesn’t hang around with them. When they do bother to come to class, Sokka always notices that they look sad and a little lost; out of place if they’re not blitzed all the time. His chest tightens at the thought.

“Are you okay, Zuko?”

“Huh?” Still in his lap, Zuko glances at the blunt resting between his index and middle finger, then at the ocean horizon, then directly at Sokka. Some of the fogginess in his eyes has cleared. “Never been better.”

Sokka has a hard time falling asleep that night. The sleep he does get is restless, and he has a terrible dream that Zuko is about to go bungee jumping. Dream Sokka is the only one who realizes that there’s far too much slack on his cord, and he speeds down the road on his rusty old bike, which falls apart before he can stop Zuko from taking that fatal leap. He wakes up sweating, reaching out in the darkness as though Zuko were right next to him. 

The dread in Sokka’s chest worsens throughout the summer. Zuko never pressures Sokka to try anything, though Sokka isn’t sure if that’s out of consideration or a judgmental assumption that Sokka would be too lame to say yes, anyways. Sokka is glad Zuko never asks; that way, he doesn’t have to prove the latter as the reality.

It’s hard to go about their summer like everything is normal, though, because half the time Sokka can tell Zuko is under the influence of something. He’s slow to react to Sokka’s jokes, bloodshot eyes blinking for a moment when they used to light up with laugher before the punchline even comes. When he is sober--and Sokka can always tell, because he’s as uptight as ever, which is actually becoming a breath of fresh air compared to the shell of Zuko’s he’s now used to--he fidgets a lot, like he’s waiting for Sokka to leave so that he can get high, or whatever. Sokka doesn’t want to think about the array of substances too much.

There are other things on Sokka’s radar, flashing like emergency alarms. Sometimes Zuko will show up with bruises on his arms and legs—even a black eye, on occasion—but he never tells Sokka how they got there, just laughs and calls himself a klutz. Sokka knows when he’s being lied to, but he also knows Zuko well enough to not push it.

Yeah, tumultuous is too generous. The summer feels like a fever dream, where Zuko is stuck in a burning building and Sokka watches, horrified of the destruction but unable to quell it.

By the time mid-July rolls around, Sokka has a sickening realization that he and Zuko are growing apart. It hits him like a freight train: that they don’t have anything in common, really, besides the fact that they live down the street from each other a quarter of each year. Sokka likes to spend time with his family, likes to play sports and is actually excited to start high school. Zuko likes to sleep in, likes to be alone and has grown to prefer a certain level of cognitive impairment to function. Neither comment on it, but it bubbles in Sokka’s chest like tar whenever they’re together and it still feels like Zuko is a thousand miles away. 

It bothers Sokka so much that he tugs on Zuko’s sleeve one evening, when they’re hanging out and it approaches that time when Sokka goes home for dinner and Zuko heads off to get high with his dealer.

“You want to come--to Jet’s?” Zuko repeats his question in awe, a quirked brow saying it all: he thinks Sokka is out of his depth. “Like, you come with me. To Jet’s.”

“Uh…well, yeah!” Sokka smiles, tries to look chipper, but the shock on Zuko’s face strains his attempt. “If that’s okay.”

“You, Sokka, want to come to Jet’s. With me.”

“Okay, you know what? Just forget it.” Sokka turns away, dejected, only for Zuko to grab his arm and tug him back.

“Stop that. Hey, I’m just shocked, is all.” Zuko loops his arm around Sokka’s shoulders. “My innocent best friend wants to get stoned.”

 _Innocent._ Sharp annoyance prevents Sokka from basking in the two words that came after that. He ducks out of Zuko’s hold. “I’m not _innocent.”_

“And I’m not a good-for-nothing pothead.”

“You’re not,” Sokka says, dead serious and now annoyed for an entirely different reason.

“I was joking, Socks,” Zuko says, but the lost look in his eyes indicates otherwise. “You can come, yeah. I’d like that, actually.”

Jet lives a few houses down from Zuko, though Sokka’s never seen him out before. “He’s an asshole, honestly, but sells good shit,” is all the reassurance he gets from Zuko as they creep into his backyard, entering through the back door so his parents don’t see. Jet’s basement is finished but aged, with low ceilings and dusty furniture. Sokka trails behind Zuko, trembling hands shoved into his pockets. He has an inkling that for once, Zuko is set to do most of the talking.

“Hey Jeee—oh, Jesus,” Zuko says as Jet stumbles into the room, in the throes of coughing fit. His brown hair looks moppy under a dirty beanie and his clothes are about three sizes too big. He walks over to them, so clumsy that Sokka is afraid he’ll fall over. Even Zuko looks apprehensive as Jet regards them with glassy eyes.

“What the fuck is up?” He asks, trying to sound cool but looking a little crazed.

“This is my buddy, Sokka,” Zuko says, nodding behind him. Sokka expects some joke about how he’s a sober loser, to lighten the mood maybe, but it doesn’t come. Maybe he’s just projecting again.

“You’re Katara’s brother, yeah?” Jet says. His pupils are blown. “She’s hot, man.”

“Dude, she’s 12—”

Zuko cuts in with a cough. “You got a beer or anything for Sokka? He can’t smoke—asthma and whatnot. Just came to chill.”

Jet’s face scrunches as though he’d been asked to recite the quadratic formula.

“Just give him a minute,” Zuko mumbles out of the corner of his mouth. Sokka clamps his mouth shut, inspecting his shoes as the silence stretches on humorously long. 

“Beer, yeah! I do have that.” Jet stares, rubs at his eyes before turning around and bumbling out of the room. Presumably to get beer, though Sokka isn’t confident he’ll find his way back.

“Told you he was an asshole,” Zuko says. “But he’s my only plug, so…”

“Asthma? Really, Zuko?”

“Trust me. I’m not letting you smoke whatever shitty strain he’s on,” Zuko murmurs, patting the spot on the couch next to him. “You don’t have to drink the beer, either.”

 _What, like I can’t handle it?_ Sokka wants to ask, but the annoyance would be forced. In reality, Zuko’s words set loose a kaleidoscope of butterflies in his belly, all tingly and foreign but entirely welcome. He sinks into the cushion, gaze fixed on the tiny motes of dust suspended in the air.

“Okay. I trust you, Zuko.” Sokka smiles. “And I’ll go into an asthma attack right here to prove it.”

“Good.” Zuko grins. “Make it a doozy to scare Jet. Like, you forgot your inhaler and everything.”

Sokka nods, pats the arm of the couch so dust goes flying. “Just hit this couch a few times and I’ll be coughing like a banshee.”

The absurdity of the situation hits them both at once. Zuko laughs, the most genuine one Sokka has heard all summer. Sokka does too, and the graceless snort that rips from his nose only sends Zuko into another fit. For a blissful moment they lean into each other, stifling their giggles like they’re 10 years old again. Zuko puts his hand on Sokka’s leg, shushing him in between his own snickers so Jet’s parents don’t bust them. Sokka buries his face into Zuko’s shoulder, mouth clamped shut to keep his laughter in.

For a blissful moment, everything is as it used to be.

When the laughter dies, Zuko looks right into Sokka. He looks somber, hand still resting on Sokka’s thigh and burning a hole through his jeans. The question on his lips is nearly visible: _why did you come tonight?_

And if Zuko were to speak those words, Sokka would answer: _for that moment we just shared. I came for that._

Zuko rips his hand away when Jet comes back, hiccupping and double fisting beer cans. It’s such a fantastic way to kill the moment that Sokka almost laughs again, if not for the burgeoning fear that his well of blissful moments with Zuko runs drier each time he’s granted one.

“Here.” Jet throws a can at Sokka. “Hope you like porters.”

Emboldened by that moment, and maybe by his own insecurity that they’re friendship is finite, Sokka is gripped with an overwhelming desire to impress Zuko. He cracks the can open and chugs the beer without putting it down once. It has a bitter, hoppy aftertaste that makes his face scrunch. Zuko raises a brow but doesn’t say anything to stop him, just takes a long hit off the bong Jet passed to him.

“So, you two. Friends, yeah?” Jet’s eyes flicker between them, lazy and unfocused.

“Best friends,” Sokka says. He shivers, invigorated as the cold beer enters his bloodstream.

“Huh, Zuko’s never mentioned you.”

Sokka turns to Zuko, who scoffs. “That’s ‘cause you’re a creep, Jet.”

Jet shrugs. His face is red and blotchy when he turns to Sokka. “Fuck Zuko. Look, Sokka, _Sokka_ —your sister _is_ hot. But, shit, you’re kinda pretty yourself. No homo.”

“Uh, thanks?” Sokka scratches behind his ear. “I think I need another beer.”

Zuko laughs, coughing up the hit he was in the middle of inhaling.

The second beer goes down easier than the first, and Sokka starts to feel fuzzy halfway through it. Once it’s empty he wobbles to the bathroom, giggling as he recalls the look on Zuko’s face when Jet called him pretty. He looked pissed! Sokka hiccups, clutches the bathroom sink and stares into the mirror. Pretty is a stretch, he thinks. His eyes look glassy, cheeks flushed pink from the alcohol. A total stranger.

After finger-gunning his reflection, Sokka swings the bathroom door open and is met with a swaying Zuko. He startles, looks down and curses when he realized he didn’t zip his pants.

“Oh, god, I’ve ruined you,” Zuko says as Sokka fumbles with the zipper. Sokka looks up again, delayed recognition seizing him.

Bloodshot eyes are a giveaway that Zuko is high, but there’s a sort of sobered discontentment on his face that overwrites it. He reeks of weed, too, but Sokka finds he doesn’t mind right now. That he likes it, even.

“-okka. Sokka. Earth to Sokka! Are you good?”

“Oh, me? I’m fine, yeah.” Sokka leans into the doorframe, trying to look casual. What had Zuko said before all that? “M’glad I came.”

“Yeah?” Zuko looks weary. “I actually feel kinda shitty about it.”

“Why’s that?” Sokka bops him on the nose. “Zuuuuko.”

“’Cause you’re too good for this shit,” Zuko says. He gestures vaguely to the dim basement. “You don’t need… _this.”_

Sokka can’t tell if Zuko’s talking about Jet, or the substances, or himself. Each possibility whizzes through his muddled brain like a swarm of bees in a pot of honey.

“Yeah, I do,” he slurs, because disagreeing with Zuko feels like the right choice here. When he hiccups, Zuko groans.

“Fuck, your dad is gonna kill us. We need to get going, Socks.”

“I can jus’ stay here,” Sokka says. “Sleep on Jet’s couch.”

“Absolutely fucking not.” Zuko sets his jaw, looking almost paternal. “Shit, Sokka. Two beers really bolstered you up that much, huh?”

“Didn’t eat dinner,” Sokka says, moaning a bit when he realizes the warmth in his stomach is actually nausea, not giddiness from Zuko’s proximity. “Sssshhhould I have an asthma attack now?”

Zuko’s face contorts into a sort of novel adoration that Sokka has never seen before. He shrinks under it, giggles nervously. “Jus’ kidding.”

Zuko sighs, appears to contemplate something before leaning down to press a kiss against Sokka’s temple. One of his arms wraps around Sokka’s shoulders, pulling him into his chest. “We’re leaving. I’ll get you home safe…pretty boy.”

Woozy and suddenly very tired, Sokka has no complaints about that. Nor does he have any qualms when Zuko squats down and ushers Sokka to climb on his back. He complies, wrapping his arms around Zuko’s neck and humming tiredly into his ear.

Jet is passed out on the floor when they creep by. Sokka finds this hilarious, until he’s struck with the realization that Zuko spends most of his nights like this, too. Sprawled out and doped up. Then it occurs to Sokka: perhaps Zuko has more in common with Jet than with him. Perhaps only Sokka’s presence tonight prevented Zuko from unwinding in the only way that makes him happy these days. The idea is enough to clench his already queasy stomach, to send him scrambling off Zuko’s back and hurling into the grass once they step outside.

* * *

It's cruel; the moment they shared seemed so decisive and magical, but that's only in Sokka’s memory. In reality, it doesn't change anything at all.

Sokka doesn’t ask to come to Jet’s again that summer, and Zuko doesn’t invite him. Things don’t alter much between them, nor do they go back to normal. Every time Zuko shows up to their hangouts dazed and confused, Sokka becomes more certain that his well has dried, and he relives their moment in Jet’s dingy basement more than he’d care to admit.

The true distance between them rears its ugly head a few weeks before they start high school. It’s a time that should be exciting, since they’ll be classmates for the first time, but the transition from summer to fall is instead marked by tension, and a coldness in the air that has little to do with the changing weather.

Zuko shows up to the beach especially bitter, maybe because he has a split lower lip. Sokka knows better than to ask what happened, so instead he starts babbling about his dad, and how angry Sokka is at him because he took Katara’s side in some dumb argument about who the funniest one in the family is. Zuko looks pensive, brushing his finger over his busted lip as he remains silent next to Sokka. Occasionally he nods along, like Sokka’s paternal woes have really struck a chord with him.

“Sucks you only have a dad,” Zuko says. He seems sober, for the first time in weeks. Hesitant, too. “Dads are the worst.”

“What? Mine isn’t,” Sokka says. What a strange way to look at things, he thinks. It sucks that his mom died, of course, but the remaining presence of his dad is perhaps the least-sucky part about the ordeal.

Zuko scoffs, now entirely unguarded. “Oh yeah? Wait ‘til you do something wrong, then. He’ll beat you.”

Sokka has done plenty wrong, but physical repercussions are out of the question in his house. And it’s in this moment he begins to consider the possibility that Zuko’s dad is nothing like his own. Nothing like Hakoda, who tells Sokka he can be whatever he wants, as long as he works hard and stays kind. Hakoda, whose fair punishments are perhaps the only reason Sokka hasn’t broken more bones from recklessly scaling pine trees. Hakoda, who works three jobs to build up a college fund for himself and Katara. Sokka loves his dad, probably more than anything in the world.

Something changes in Zuko’s eyes then, once he registers Sokka’s silence and realizes the boy next to him can’t relate to anything he’s disclosed—that he’s completely alone in this experience. He rests his chin on his knees, voice as small and insecure as Sokka had ever heard it, like he already knows the answer to the question he’s about to ask.

“Your dad doesn’t beat you, does he?”

“Not ever,” Sokka whispers. He’s unable to meet Zukos’ eyes, suddenly feeling sick.

There’s a long silence, air tense with the heaviness of either boy’s ponderings. When Sokka stands up and says he should probably get going, Zuko catches on immediately and tackles him to the ground. Sokka yelps, thrashing around and trying to push Zuko off of his torso, but he’s too strong and the effort is fruitless. Zuko leans low, boring into Sokka and demanding his submission.

“Don’t tell _anyone_ about my dad, okay? If you tell anyone, I’ll…” He looks frantic. “I’ll hate you forever.”

“B-but,” Sokka’s eyes go wide and he trembles under Zuko’s body. “Someone can help! Someone can help you!”

“No! You’re wrong,” Zuko sounds ferocious but looks like a caged animal, hair disheveled and eyes crazed. “They’ll take me away, Sokka. Or—or my dad will kill me himself. And it’ll be _your fault.”_

“Zuko, I—” Sokka’s eyes swim with tears, and he shakes his head vigorously. “Please, Zuko! I won’t say anything, I promise I won’t! Just please…” He looks at his wrists, which are locked in Zuko’s vice grip, so tight his knuckles have gone white and Sokka feels a bruise forming. “Please let go of me.”

Everything seems to register, then. At once Zuko’s shoulders slouch, and he releases Sokka with a shuddering exhale. More than relieved at Sokka’s sworn secrecy, he looks utterly terrified, puffing out shallow breaths and staring down at his own hands in horror. After a moment he closes himself off completely, turning away from Sokka and hugging his knees to his chest.

“I never should’ve said anything to you. Not ever.”

Sokka is surprised at how much those words hurt. He gets up, shaky and not entirely convinced he won’t be tackled again. But Zuko doesn’t say anything as Sokka dusts the sand off his clothes with trembling hands, trudges over to his bike and swings his leg over the saddle. He’s not surprised when Zuko doesn’t follow him, and when he gives one last glance over his shoulder Zuko hasn’t moved; he’s still kneeled over in the sand, hugging himself tight.

The tears come as soon as Sokka gets home, loud and shameless, soaking the cushions of his living room couch. Hakoda is there in an instant, all concerned and comforting, which only makes Sokka wail harder.

“I—me and Zuko—I don’t think—” he hiccups, voice ascending into a pathetic squeak. “I think I just lost my best friend, dad.”

“What happened, Sokka? Sokka, it’s okay, it’s alright…”

The weight of Zuko’s words crush his conscious, practically suffocates him as he recalls the split lip, the black eyes, the bruises. How could he be so fucking blind? But just as he’s about to speak, Zuko’s threat echoes in his head, haunting him into silence. 

_“They’ll take me away, Sokka. Or—or my dad will kill me himself. And it’ll be_ your fault.”

Sokka makes up his mind, then: he can’t tell anyone. Zuko doesn’t want him to. And if Zuko doesn’t want to be his friend anymore, then the least Sokka can do is grant him that.

He falls asleep that night grappling with the reality that it’s really over. That peculiar, comforting friendship he's tended to so faithfully for the past four summers; over. Zuko shut down at the beach, retreated further away from Sokka than he’s ever been. Backsliding into what feels safe. Sokka’s seen it plenty of times before, though something always drew Zuko back, eventually. Sokka got used to his sporadic but treasured glimpses of Zuko, real and unguarded. The glimpses were always scarce but enough; _just_ enough to keep the ramshackle train of their friendship chugging through this long summer.

But this time, Sokka doesn’t think Zuko will come back. 

**Author's Note:**

> not me writing a 12k+ short fic while I have 3 posted WIPs and 2 unposted WIPs. I am the WORST AUTHOR but I hope you guys are enjoying so far! chapter 2 is almost done, I just got antsy af to post so I split it up (this was gonna be a oneshot. once again, I suck). 
> 
> love you all :) comments are obviously not necessary but fill me with so much joy and motivation! and I always respond cause I love them so much :----) even if u wanna yell at me for having so many WIPs (pls don't)


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